#more upcoming rodents and sillies?

[pandeesall]

#will rody like it #or love it? #find out #in the next episodeee #i also have another dp idea just now that i've GOT to work on !!! #more upcoming rodents and sillies? #wink wink #dead plate #dead plate fanart #dead plate vincent #dead plate rodent #dead plate rody #dead plate comic #dee.art

[busterkeatonfanfic]

Chapter 17

The canteen at United Artists buzzed with the news of the scene that John Barrymore had made in the ballroom while filming Tempest. For once, Nelly had something to contribute. Over a dozen times, she told her story of him blundering into the washroom and pissing in the sink. She omitted the detail of his nose-picking, as it seemed unnecessarily spiteful. Perhaps she was still loyal to her past infatuation with him, which was now wholly gone. Regardless, her story was still a hit. 

It took a couple of days for the canteen chatter to return to the usual: who was straying from their marriage or thinking about divorce or both; who had been seen at a party or a restaurant or a premier; who had been drop-dead drunk and fallen from grace. The other extras felt smug that the stars were mortal and not gods, and although she enjoyed the gossip just as much as anyone, Nelly didn’t feel superior. It was no revelation to her, especially after encountering John Barrymore in the washroom, that Hollywood types were covered in warts if you looked closely. She thought of what Buster had said about many of them not growing up well and being like children who had been handed palaces and toys. Even though he did live in a palace, Buster felt more down-to-earth, a man she might have met anywhere. She’d felt comfortable with Louise Brooks and Charlie Chaplin too. 

Occasionally, the canteen talk was more useful, involving buzz about films that were rumored to be in the offing. On Thursday morning at eleven, Nelly heard something that stopped her heart and then broke it. She was eating a chicken salad and half listening to her neighbors, half thinking about the props she needed to organize for an upcoming scene of Norma Talmadge’s new picture The Woman Disputed, which was nearing the end of filming. Every time she thought of the film, she thought of Norma. That caused her to think of Natalie, which in turn led her to think of Buster. Even though he was with another studio and she hadn’t seen him for nearly three months, scarcely a day went by where she didn’t have cause to remember him.

“... Taming of the Shrew,” said her neighbor, a pretty brunette with a bob and a snub nose, and Nelly was suddenly paying attention just as though someone had said her name directly. Shakespeare was not a topic of conversation that typically came up in Hollywood, and when it did it was always Hamlet or Macbeth or Midsummer.

“Excuse me, could you say that again?” she said to her neighbor.

“I was on set yesterday with Mr. Taylor and he was saying his next big film’s called Taming of the Shrew. It’s Shakespeare or something. What a queer title, don’t you think? Why’d you want to tame a shrew?”

Nelly was too excited to explain the particulars of rodents versus unruly women. “When’s he casting?” she said, feeling breathless. 

“Well God knows that,” said the extra. “He’s gotta finish with Tempest first, doesn’t he? But he says Doug Fairbanks and Mary Pickford are the leads, so it must be a romance. Lord, I’d give my right ear to be in a film with her.”

Nelly could almost feel the shattered halves of her heart drop into the space beneath her rib cage. Her stomach burned. She murmured some meaningless rejoinder and let others around her pick up the threads of the conversation. No one noticed when she got up and left, her chicken salad half uneaten. 

Coming to California, all of her hard work, had been pointless in the end. She’d never stood a real chance of making it onto the screen in a leading role; even the other extras were prettier, slimmer, and more experienced, and they weren’t the main competition when it came to actresses. Somehow, she’d never thought anyone would think to make The Taming of the Shrew without her, though.

She found herself back in the prop department, going through her work like an automaton all while feeling as if a family member had just died. Well, a dream had and it was just as dear to her. It was all she could do to make it through the day without crying, but when she arrived home she found that she was too numb to let the torrent burst forth. She sat on the sofa in her apartment as the news sank in. The trajectory of her life had come into a new and painful focus. She was not to have success in pictures. Here she was, twenty-six, unmarried, no children, no career; in short, not a thing to show for her time on the earth. Worse yet, she was now all but certain that Mr. Taylor had gotten the idea from John Barrymore. Where else would it have come from?

Besides Barrymore, not a single other soul in the world knew what the dream had meant to her except Buster. She still had his number from back in October. It was written on a curled piece of paper in Bert’s handwriting and hidden in her underwear drawer, and she never considered calling it until now. The rational course of action would be to let the storm blow over and the sun reappear from behind the clouds, but she was so miserable that once the thought of Buster was in her head, she couldn’t help herself. She stood up and went into her bedroom. The paper was tucked toward the back of the drawer beneath a black silk lace chiffon chemise she’d never worn before. She told herself that it was humiliating to run to Buster and throw her little fit, yet she was in the hall outside the apartment dialing his number before she had the chance to reason herself out of it. 

The line rang and rang and rang some more. 

With every second he didn’t pick up, her misery increased. Friendless, talentless, foolish, hopeful Nelly. She was seconds away from hanging up when there was a click on the other lines and a voice, sounding harassed, said, “Hello?”

“Is this Buster?” she said. 

“Yeah?” said the voice.

“It’s Nelly.”

There was silence and evident confusion on the other end. “Oh. Well, how are you?”

A hot, mortified flush went through her. How stupid it had been to call him and involve him in her silly problems. She’d probably interrupted him in the middle of something important.

“You know what, it’s not anything important,” she said hastily. “I’m sorry I called. I don’t want to bother you.”

“Well you can’t do that to me. Now I’m interested,” said Buster. 

“No, it’s stupid. I just didn’t know who else to tell,” she said. 

“Spit it out.” 

She took a deep breath. “I just found out that Sam Taylor is directing Taming of the Shrew,” she said. “He’s cast Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks in the leading roles already. And I think—oh, this is so stupid—I think that John Barrymore gave Mr. Taylor the idea. I’m sure I gave John Barrymore the idea. I told him all about it, the night of your party. And—” To her distress, her voice cracked.

There was silence on the line. “Oh,” said Buster, his voice gentle and soothing. “You poor kid. So someone’s gone and taken your dream?”

“Yes,” she said. She fought to swallow back the tears and steady her voice. “Anyway, you’re the only one who knew … and I thought—but I told you it was stupid. I’m sorry. I just didn’t know who else to tell.”

Buster’s next words nearly knocked her over. “Where do you live? I can be right over.”

“No, no, you don’t have to,” she said hurriedly.

“No, I’m coming over. What’s your address?”

“Genesee Avenue, but don’t. You don’t have to.”

“What number?”

“401, but please—”

“Great. I’ll be there in about a half hour.” The line clicked again and he was gone, likely having realized she was about to try to argue him out of it. 

She sniffed back her tears and looked around the apartment in a daze, forced to set aside her despair as she considered the state of her home. Neatness had never been one of her talents and there was dirty laundry all over the floor, used cups stacked on top of magazines, and stacks of books everywhere. First, though, she needed to address her makeup. The sob had smeared her mascara and eyeliner, so she reapplied those and touched up her lipstick. Her hair had a few flyaways, but she judged it acceptable. The beige cotton day dress with the green and red dice pattern could have been fancier, but there were dishes and laundry to worry about and she didn’t have time to try on outfits to see which one worked best. She filled a sink with soapy water and did a quick job of cleaning three days’ worth of plates, silverware, and cups. Running short on time, she dashed around the living room next picking up slips, dresses, and stockings. She’d cleared most of them when she heard a distant knock. Her heartbeat rose in her throat.

She slipped out of the apartment and hurried to the front door before any of her neighbors could investigate. When she opened it, Buster was standing there in a pale yellow jacket over a white collared shirt. He gave a slight smile when he saw her. She was simultaneously reassured and distressed by the sight of him.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I really shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“Stop it,” he said, as he stepped over the threshold and she closed the door behind him. “Quit apologizing.”

“Okay,” she said. She brushed past him and took the short hall to her front door. Buster followed. Inside, she motioned for him to sit on the sofa. “I’m sorry about the mess. I wasn’t expecting company.”

“What’d I just say about apologizing?” Buster said. He sat on the sofa, putting his elbows on his knees and knitting his hands. “So tell me about your bad news.”

Nelly hovered next to the sofa, uncertain of how to conduct herself. She was unable to forget that the last time she’d seen Buster, they had engaged in some rather serious kissing and he’d asked her to spend the night with him. There seemed to be no trace of that romantic mood left in him now. “Do you want any coffee? Tea?” she said. “I can make some.”

Buster shook his head. “I want you to sit here and tell me what’s happened.” He patted the cushion next to him.

She felt shy, but didn’t dare disobey. She took a seat beside him, leaving a polite space between them, and began pouring out her tale. In truth, there wasn’t much to say. Fairbanks and Pickford were shoe-ins and her chance to make movie history was down the drain. 

“I don’t know what I do now,” she said after explaining what she’d heard in the canteen, the despair creeping up on her again. “I wasted all this time for nothing. I was so stupid to think I’d get anywhere. You told me from the very beginning I wasn’t leading-lady material and I ought to have listened. I feel awful.”

“It’s a tough business for everyone, never mind me putting my foot in my mouth that one time,” Buster said. “What about trying out for one of the other parts?”

Nelly shook her head. “There’s Bianca. That’s it. Even if I wanted the part, I don’t have any experience. Acting in pictures, I mean. I’ve been an extra for you and in John Barrymore’s new picture. That’s all.” Her eyes welled with tears as she wondered what it had all been for. There was no place for a girl of average looks who was twenty pounds too heavy. No place for an old maid. The tears wobbled in her eyes and spilled.

Buster rummaged in his trousers pocket and handed her his handkerchief.

“Thank you,” she choked out. She blew her nose and blotted her eyes, leaving behind smudges of eyeliner and mascara on the clean white fabric. “I was so damn stupid. I shouldn’t have said a god damn thing to John Barrymore. It was hubris.”

Buster patted her shoulder. “I’m sorry, baby. It’s a rotten business.”

She wept at his words, shielding her face with the handkerchief.  

“Now c’mon. Don’t do that. C’mere,” said Buster. 

She shook her head, but he pulled her to him and gathered her in his arms. She gave up and buried her face in his shoulder. “I’m so stupid,” she said into his shirt. As she cried the rest of her tears he continued to hold her, rubbing her back and putting his chin in her hair. 

“If it makes you feel better, even people who’ve been in the biz since the beginning don’t always get what we want,” said Buster. “I just lost my studio.”

“I know,” she said, sniffling. “Bert told me. It’s not fair to you, either.” Her tears soaked into his shirt.

Buster’s chin on her head and his touch on her back were comforting. Although she was in the grip of despondency, the caresses were making her feel just a little like things might be okay after all. 

“I’m glad you called,” he said, when the hitches in her chest began to lessen. 

“Why?” she said, straightening up and breaking his hold on her. She turned her face away. She could feel it was hot and blotchy and knew she’d cried off half her makeup. She blew her nose.

“I’ve been thinking about you, Nellie Dean.”

She dabbed at her face with the cleaner edges of the handkerchief and hazarded a glance at him. “What?”

“Since my party.”

She couldn’t tell what his expression meant. “What do you mean?” she said, feeling dumb. 

“A pretty girl is like a melody / That haunts you night and day,” he sang, with a silly smile.

She laughed at his absurdity and wiped her nose with the handkerchief. Her mood was suddenly lighter by half. He was telling her he hadn’t forgotten her. “Buster Keaton, are you making love to me?” 

He nodded. “C’mere.”

She shook her head. “I look like an utter fright, my nose is stopped up, how can you possibly want—”

“Shh,” he said. He tugged at her arm and she couldn’t resist.

She fell against him and he took her face in his hands. The kiss was long and searching. The taste of his mouth was familiar and reassuring, and the melting sensation she felt was the same, too. She’d given up hope of this ever happening again and felt beyond giddy now that it was. She leaned into him and put her hands on the back of his neck. After a minute or so, he removed his hands from her face and clutched her to him. Their thighs pressed together as they kissed.

Too soon, Nelly had to pull back. “My nose is still stopped up,” she said with a laugh. She turned away and blew it again.

Buster reeled her back into his embrace as soon as she’d finished. This time when he kissed her, he slid his hand up her knee and under her dress. He bypassed her stocking, stopped on her bare upper thigh, and squeezed, his hand warm and emphatic. Thrilled, Nelly insinuated her hands beneath his jacket to rest on his back as his tongue met hers. She knew that they couldn’t go further—she had her little friend visiting—but she found him hard to resist. He made her forget that she would never have success in pictures and that she currently looked like a fright. Feeling bold, she dropped one hand to the rear waistband of his trousers and tugged his shirt and undershirt out so she could put her hand against the warm skin of his back. 

Buster made a noise in his throat and pulled back, withdrawing his hand from her dress. He was considering her in that silent, serious way that he had. When she went to touch his face, he caught her hand. He planted kisses on her palm, then put her hand on his cheek and held it there. A very sober look was on his face and she realized in an instant what it meant. 

“I can’t,” she said, blushing.

He looked crestfallen. “Are you religious? Is that why you won’t go to bed with me?” 

She laughed and blushed deeper. “No, not at all. I’ve—oh, this is embarrassing—I’ve got my monthlies.”

“Oh,” he said. 

“I want to,” she said, not meeting his eyes. She wound her hand around his and brought it to her lips so she could kiss his knuckles. For the first time, she noticed that the index finger of his right hand was missing the first joint and there was a small protrusion at the tip. “What happened?” she said, touching it.

Buster withdrew his hand like he’d been burnt. “Clothes wringer when I was a tot,” he said.

“You’re self-conscious about it,” she said, comprehension dawning. “I’m sorry.” She gently took his hand again and kissed each fingertip individually, including the shortened one. His nails were bitten down and she wondered fleetingly about all the things she didn’t know about him. “I think it’s beautiful, just like the rest of you.” She looked at him and he swallowed. “I’m sorry about … having my monthlies too.”

“I said no apologizing,” he said, clearing his throat. 

“I did want to, that night at your party,” Nelly said, pressing his hand. “And when I didn’t hear from you, I figured I was just there for a little fun.”

Buster returned the press of her hand. “You weren’t.” He cleared his throat again. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you sometime.”

“Okay.” 

They lapsed into silence and she could hear Buster thinking as he stroked her hand. 

“Are you hungry? I could make some sandwiches.”

“No, I uh—” He scratched his head with his other hand, seeming nervous. “I better go.”

Nelly’s heart sank. She had done something to offend him. Maybe it was mentioning his finger. Or her monthly visitor. Perhaps he thought she was making excuses. “Did I say something?” she said. 

“No. I just think if I stay here any longer, I’ll—” He laughed and didn’t finish his thought. 

“What?” she said. She kissed his hand in concern. 

“I might be compelled to do something rash, monthlies or no monthlies.” His laughter trailed off and he gave her a meaningful look. 

“Oh.” Monthlies or no monthlies, a lick of fire went through her. “I should see you out.” She stood before he had a chance to test his powers of persuasion and the fire had a chance to catch. If he really did mean to take her to bed, she didn’t want it to be this way, her makeup half-gone, the redcoats downstairs. “I’m glad you came. I feel better.”

Buster stood and put a hand in the center of her back. “Any time. Don’t worry too bad, you’ll get your break. And hey, maybe the picture will flop without you in it, ever think of that?” The hand slipped down to her waist and they walked slowly to her door.

“With Mary Pickford and Doug Fairbanks?” she said, smiling. “Not likely.”

“You never know,” he said. They went out the door and walked down the hall together, Buster still gripping her waist.

“Thanks again,” she said, as they reached the front door of the apartment. 

Buster kept hold of her waist. “Same day, same time next week?” he said.

“What, here?” she said, her heart speeding up. 

He kissed her forehead. “If the invitation stands.”

“Of course.” She hugged him, burying her face against the side of his neck where he smelled like aftershave and Buster. Her heart was beating so hard she thought she might swoon. 

Buster squeezed her back. “I’ll give you a call next week, okay? Keep your chin up.” 

With a parting kiss to her lips, he stepped into the night. She watched him until he got into his car and pulled away, then returned to her apartment. She didn’t think it was possible for her to feel in any more of a muddle. On the whole, though, Buster had made it a much more pleasant muddle. It was a cool fifty-eight degrees the morning of the 26th. There was the sign, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer-Stvdios, the gate that swung open to admit him, the attendant in the booth that waved him onto his destiny. As Buster parked his car in front of the offices, he reflected that anyone else in his place would have a song in their heart right now, what with the weekly $3,000 and twenty-five percent cut of profits that were soon to be his. Nothing sung in him. He couldn’t shake the image of a prisoner walking to the gallows as he entered the building.  

Mayer’s office was wood-panelled and working hard, Buster saw, to convey taste and refinement. Mayer had a soft, persuasive voice with a hint of a Russian accent, and it was with this voice that he told Buster how honored he was that Mr. Keaton had chosen to sign with them, and hoped that his time with the studio would be productive and successful. Irving Thalberg, also in the room, expressed similar wishes. Other men whose names he was told and promptly forgot shook his hand and said it was an honor. Professions were made that if he should need anything, anything, he should never hesitate to call upon them. Buster nodded and answered in kind. The whole scene felt stiffly rehearsed and he never had cared for rehearsals. He felt like he was watching himself on the screen.

Harold Lloyd’s words went through his head. It’s not your gang. You’ll lose. 

But there was the contract set out on a little desk like a bone for a dog, and there was the Villa to think of, the Villa wouldn’t pay for itself. There were his boys, his Little Lord Fauntleroys. There was Natalie too, he had to keep her in the way in which she had become accustomed, and he also had Myra and the other Keatons to support. 

The bone seemed too easy, there had to be some catch, some dog-catcher’s trap he wasn’t seeing. He picked up the fountain pen with the gold bib and mother-of-pearl inlays on the barrel. Giving his audience a slight smile, he unearthed the final page of the contract and signed. There was no need to read the pages before; he’d been given a copy by Joe beforehand and seen all the herebys, herewiths, hold harmlesses, and ‘it is understoods and agreeds.’

Someone clapped his shoulders and he had the fight the urge to sock them one good for touching him. He didn’t know these stuffed shirts from Adam, but he shook hands agreeably instead. It then transpired that they wanted to snap some pictures of him outside the gates, so away he went, the pliable new star that they had collected for their luminous pantheon. 

It was understand and agreed, he thought, standing there with a suitcase in one hand and oversized leather satchel in another, that Buster should herewith pose with some bags that had been plastered with stickers that read GAGS, the reason being that they would convey to the public that he was moving into M-G-M and bringing his gags (haha!) with him. He wanted a cigarette, but then there came headshots, and after all wasn’t it an honor for the photographer to be shooting him? The photographer said so, anyway. 

Honor. Everyone kept using that word. It made it sound like he was doing them a favor out of the goodness of his heart, rather than being forced into it.

When every excruciating formality had been taken care of, he shook another round of hands and was released. The tour of the studios had occurred a few weeks before and all that needed to happen now was for his new picture to be settled on. Mayer assured him that they would be in touch about it. 

As he drove away and headed back to Beverly Hills, cigarette in mouth, he felt like doing something reckless and destructive, but nothing suggested itself. Drinking himself into a stupor was too obvious and easy. He wanted to burn something down, beat someone up, anything to tarnish the squeaky-clean reputation he knew that Louis Mayer wanted him to have. He thought of surprising Nelly with a visit, but since it had only been two days since he saw her, her feminine predicament was likely to be the same. He wished Roscoe were in town and that they could paint the town red like they used to. Then he felt guilty, knowing that old Roscoe would give his right arm for a chance like he was getting. In a dialogue in his head, he apologized to Roscoe and explained that everything had changed since those early, innocent days. Things weren’t what they used to be. Hollywood was growing up. 

It’s not your gang. 

Well, what was done was done. There was no turning back now.  

You’ll lose. 

When the familiar streets and buildings of Beverly Hills came into view, he finally figured out what he was going to do. He was going to have an affair. In the years since his exile from Natalie’s bed, he’d had plenty of trysts. He was known to a brothel or two, and he’d also had a couple of steadies, girls with their own places he could depend on to scratch the itch when he got it, but he’d never had a real affair. He knew the perfect place to start it, too. He pulled into the parking lot of Luxury Travel and stretched his legs. 

The receptionist pretended not to be awed when she saw him. “What can I do for you, Mr. Keaton?” she said, as though they’d met before. 

“I’d like to see a man about a cabin,” he said. “A cabin by a lake.”

“Of course. Let me go get Mr. Cabbot.” 

In Mr. Cabbot’s office, Buster reiterated his desire for a cabin by a lake, within an easy drive, and Mr. Cabbot said he’d see what they had. Together, they agreed that a place just northeast of the San Fernando Valley fit the bill. Buster arranged to rent it Friday through Sunday. When Natalie asked him what he was whistling about when he returned to the Villa, he told her he was happy about the M-G-M contract, but he was thinking about next week, having Nelly all to himself in a cabin by a lake. Notes: Buster signed the MGM contract on January 26th, 1928. I’d love to know what he was really feeling that day, but I can only speculate via this story. I’ve had amazing moments of serendipity writing this story (which has turned out to be far longer than I would have ever expected). For example, when I decided casually back in the beginning that Nelly’s dream was starring in a talkie of The Taming of the Shrew, I had no idea--scout’s honor--that there was a version of the film starring Pickford and Fairbanks and that it was the first adaption of Shakespeare into talking pictures. It was released in 1929, but filming probably would have been in the fall of 1928. How crazy is that? More serendipity presented itself when I found out that Sam Taylor directed Nelly’s crush Barrymore in Taylor’s previous film. The choice of Barrymore as Nelly’s love interest was also arbitrary, but it worked out perfectly. I think the fiction has also let me get to know Buster better than before, and I think I must be immersed in his character well. Case in point: When I considered where Buster would take a girl he liked if starting an affair with her, an outdoorsy location with plenty of humble living struck me as appropriate. I’ve been slowly reading Rudi Blesh’s bio of Buster while writing this fic and was completely bowled over to learn that Buster’s honeymoon with Eleanor Norris Keaton consisted of a station wagon trip to June Lake. Cross my heart, I had completed Chapter 18 before reading that! Anyway, writing this fiction has been fun and the serendipity has made it more so, and I hope you’re enjoying it. Do leave a comment if you are.

#Buster Keaton #fan fiction #RPF #Actor RPF #Golden Age Hollywood #silent film

[foreveralwaysanauthor]

Their Campfire Songs

October 26, 2021

Prompt - Campfire

Characters - Miles, Butchy, Lela, and a few others.

Notes - This takes place before Mick came into the picture, but please bear with me for a moment as I slowly slide this idea into my story’s headcanon folder.

Songs Used - Can't Help Falling in Love by Elvis Presley and Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond

It didn’t take Big Momma too long to get sick of the constant bickering over which group was going to have a party on the upcoming weekend. Thankfully, the fighting never got physical, but it also never seemed to end. It had started with the surfers discussing their plans to host a shindig at the restaurant on the upcoming Saturday which some of the Rodent crew overheard. The group subsequently went to Big Momma and told them they’d like to have a party there on that Saturday as none of the surfers had actually planned anything with the restaurant’s owner.

Since then, things only seemed to escalate. It got so bad that, at one point, there were surfers and bikers alike lined up at the front door before she even opened for the day, each vying to get in first so they could put their respective group into a spot. At first, she just smiled and reminded herself to be grateful for the extra business. When it got to the point where the groups were - to put it simply - harassing each other in broad daylight just to get the other to back down for the day, she knew she had to put her foot down with the teenagers.

One day, she pulled both groups outside and made them sit on the sand and listen to her. “Look,” she began with her hands on her hips, “I love all of you, y’all know this.” Murmured strings of agreement and gratitude were sent her way as the groups smiled up at her. “It’s because I love all you children that I’m gonna have to put a stop to all this weekend party nonsense.”

A round of shocked exclamations mixed with accusations hurled from one group to the other commenced before Butchy rolled his eyes, stuck two fingers into his mouth, and whistled sharply. Once everyone was quiet, Butchy looked back up at Big Momma and nodded. “As you were saying?”

“Thank you, Butchy,” Big Momma said before sighing. “Now, I don’t want to see any of y’all fighting over some silly party so I took matters into my own hands. From now on, you’re going to switch weekends. One week will be a surfer shindig, the next week will be a biker bonfire.”

Miles quietly lifted a hand, holding it up for the woman to see as some of each group began complaining. Once Big Momma called on him, he cleared his throat and spoke loudly enough to be heard over the commotion. “How will we know whose week it is?”

“Well,” Big Momma sighed, crossing her arms, “I figured I’d write it on the whiteboard I usually leave the specials on. Since last weekend was a shindig, I suppose this weekend is a biker weekend.”

Now that the groups had finally begun to settle down, there was a few comments made, but nothing that was said created a stir. The woman told them they were more than welcome to come inside for their usual orders as long as they were at least considerate of each other. Slowly, the groups filed into the restaurant and continued about their day and, for the most part, Big Momma’s plan went off without any hitches. While a few stray members of each group would gripe now and then about having to share their beloved restaurant, it never went further than a small complaint and things continued as normal.

About a month into this new arrangement, the surfers had a party and, for once, some of the bikers were invited. The groups had been getting along far better since the every-other-week plan had begun and slowly discovered they had some common interests. The party was typical of the surfers, the jukebox sat in the corner blasting The Beach Boys at full volume while everyone shimmied along to the music. When Butchy, Lela, and Miles entered the party - a few others were invited and just hadn’t shown up yet - Tanner and Giggles made their way over and greeted them, showing them where they could leave their jackets before giving them each something to drink and the option of food if they wanted it. At first, the trio sat at a table on the far side of the restaurant but found themselves dragged into the party fairly quickly.

Lela had been requested to sing a song with Giggles and Kiki - Build Me Up Buttercup by The Foundations as it was something all three of them knew by heart - and Butchy and Miles had found themselves incorporated into the group that watched them and, occasionally sang along to the song until Lela came back down from the stage. When the girls came down, some of the surfer boys took to the stage to sing a, well, unique cover of Aretha Franklin’s Respect. Before long, the microphone was passed around until it somehow ended up in Miles’ hands.

“Butchy, I can’t sing in front of everyone like that,” Miles whispered to Butchy as he glanced nervously around the room. Nobody was watching him, but it certainly felt like they were as he nearly dropped the microphone.

“You don’t have to,” Butchy offered. “I know you don’t like to sing-”

“That’s not it,” Miles interrupted. “I love singing. I love music and dancing and everything. I just don’t think I’m good at it. I’m also not fond of making a fool out of myself in front of all these people I barely know which I would absolutely be doing if I went up on stage.”

Lela scoffed, “You would not. You sing at the bonfire with us now and then. It’s no different.”

“It’s worlds different, Lela,” Miles sighed. “You guys don’t judge me for singing like a dying cat.”

“That’s because you don’t sound like one,” Butchy stated, prying the microphone from Miles’ shaky grip. “If you don’t want anyone to hear you sing, sing something that everybody will sing along to like The Beatles or something.”

“I don’t know any songs that do that,” Miles argued gently, glancing down at himself before meeting Butchy’s gaze. “I think I’ve practically forgotten all the songs I know. Jeez, Butchy, look at me. I’m a mess just thinking about this. Am I shaking? Why am I shaking?”

Butchy quickly took hold of Miles’ arms and shook him lightly. “Stop freaking out for a second and just breathe,” he commanded lightly, waiting until Miles sucked in a breath before releasing him. “You don’t have to sing on stage if you don’t want to. Just enjoy everyone else’s performances, yeah?”

Miles nodded slowly, already feeling a sense of guilt forming a pit in his stomach. Everyone else was having a good night singing. Heck, even Kiki’s sister, Kali, and Seacat’s brother, Lake, had sung at some point during the night. “I wish it was like singing in the backyard,” Miles mumbled. “Just us singing stupidly loud around a fire with enough roasted marshmallows to make us regret ever eating dinner.”

Butchy smiled at the sentiment before glancing down at the microphone in his hand. The biker quickly made his way onto the stage for the third time that night - he’d sung Unchained Melody with Lugnut once he arrived and did a duet of The Beach Boys’ song California Girls with Tanner - with Miles close on his tail as he usually was. Miles stayed at the bottom of the stairs, watching Butchy curiously as he spoke with the band. After a minute, music began to play and Butchy nodded with a huge, cheesy grin that made Miles smile in turn as the older man made his way off the stage and pulled Miles back to where Lela was.

The siblings spoke quietly for a moment under the cover of music before Lela squealed excitedly and grabbed Butchy and Miles by the hands, pulling them to the space in front of the stage and grabbing an acoustic guitar from one of the band members. As the band slowly descended the stairs, Lela rushed for the light switches on the wall, lowering the lights until the whole room was very dimly lit. Butchy and Lela hauled themselves onto the stage when she returned, sitting on the edge of it as Butchy placed the guitar on one leg. Miles spared a look at the rest of the people in the room before slowly pushing himself to sit on the stage with them.

“What’re you doing?” he asked in a hushed whisper.

“You’ll see,” Butchy claimed with a smile as he made sure the guitar was tuned properly.

Lela turned to the rest of the room and spoke this time, “If anybody else knows this song, feel free to sing along.”

Butchy lightly strummed the guitar, allowing Lela to find the beginning note before they both began to sing. “Wise men say only fools rush in but I can't help falling in love with you. Shall I stay? Would it be a sin if I can't help falling in love with you?”

Some of the Rodents and surfers joined in for the chorus, finding themselves a chair as they sang together. “Like a river flows surely to the sea. Darling, so it goes, some things are meant to be.”

Miles took a look at everyone as they all seemed to smile at each other regardless of what group they belonged to. Maybe Lela was right when she’d said that music was the way to get people closer together. Miles took a deep breath and began to sing softly with everybody, not loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room, but Butchy’s quick head turn in his direction was all the encouragement he needed to continue singing.

“Take my hand, take my whole life, too. For I can't help falling in love with you.”

Over the next few weekends, the bikers would invite some surfers to their weekend party at Big Momma’s and vice versa. They’d gotten to an amicable point where they could talk to each other about something without wanting to tear at their rivals’ throats. Most members of the groups would admit that it was nice to not be looking over your shoulder, ready to throw insults back if one was sent your way.

One Saturday night in particular, almost every surfer was invited to the biker gang’s bonfire by the water. As per the new normal, the groups began chattering among themselves until a guitar was brought out and all conversation was bypassed for singing around the fire. The songs sung varied in genre and emotion; Jackson 5, The Beatles, Frank Sinatra, and Lesley Gore were among the more popular choices. About an hour into the party, Miles found himself as the center of attention once again.

“Yeah, man,” Seacat started, “almost every single one of us has sung something by now, but not you. How come you never sing?”

Miles shrugged with a smile as he sipped his soda. “I just don’t like the attention, that’s all. It’s not my scene.”

“I didn’t think parties, in general, were your ‘scene’,” Giggles joked, holding a marshmallow over the fire.

“They aren’t, but I’m here, aren’t I?” Miles offered in return. “I only come because, if I don’t, I’m home alone and that’s just plain boring.”

Lela and Butchy shared a knowing smile and a shake of the head before Butchy took the guitar from Tanner. “Any requests?”

There were a few murmurs, Rascal’s normal request of Build Me Up Buttercup being shot down almost instantly as he made sure it was played or sung at least once at every party he attended. Miles took a bite out of his s’more before lightly poking Butchy in the arm. ���How about Neil Diamond?”

Seeing as that singer hadn’t been requested yet, Butchy complied, “Which song?”

Miles thought for a moment, staring into the fire before shrugging. “How about Sweet Caroline?”

“Yeah!” some of the surfers and bikers exclaimed.

Miles looked around and huffed a quick breath as he grinned. He never expected that kind of reaction, but maybe that was a good sign. Butchy began to strum lightly on the guitar, trying to find the right notes for the song. Each time, he’d get to a certain part and sigh, starting over as he ruined the tune. After watching the man struggle for a minute, Miles leaned forward and pried the guitar from under Butchy’s arm, finding little resistance from the man as he did.

“Wait,” Lugnut began with a disbelieving smirk, “you know how to play guitar too? Am I the only one here who doesn’t?” Lela, Rascal, and a few others quickly replied with a ‘No’ as many others said ‘Yes’, making the biker roll his eyes playfully and lean back in his seat.

Miles smirked at the much taller biker. “Sorry, man. This is one song I actually know how to play by heart.”

After allowing silence to form over the group, Miles began to play, humming along with the group as Butchy led them through the lyrics. A few times, Miles nearly stopped just to laugh as the group collectively sang as loud as they possibly could. It was funny but also nice to see everyone leaning against each other, singing loudly and smiling at each other. Miles had a feeling, as he neared the end of the song, that it was only going to get better.

Deciding that since he couldn’t beat them in volume this time, he’d at least join them a little, Miles began to sing along as he strummed into the final pre-chorus. True to Miles’ thoughts, the group only seemed to get louder with each word as they sang, “Warm, touchin’ warm. Reachin’ out, touchin’ me, touchin’ you…”

As the chorus began, the group began to yell it out instead of their usual singing, increasing in volume until Miles was sure that his brothers two states away could’ve heard them if they listened close enough.

“Sweet Caroline - bum, bum, bum!” the group yelled, Miles included this time as, if anybody asked, technically, yelling wasn’t singing. “Good times never seemed so good - so good, so good, so good!” Miles stopped strumming for a moment to let out a laugh, as did a few others, but returned to it quickly as everyone continued to sing along to the song. “I'd be inclined - bum, bum, bum - to believe they never would. Oh, no, no…”

As the group’s volume returned to a normal level, Miles chuckled and continued to strum with a smile, returning to singing the lyrics under his breath as he played. Were they a hectic bunch that couldn’t contain themselves when it came to music? Absolutely, but Miles wouldn’t trade it for anything. They were crazy, loud, and completely obnoxious, but Miles liked them that way - even the surfers. Watching them bond over something so simple as music was entertaining. As the song ended, the two gangs began to clap for a song well sung and played. After the campfire had been put out and everyone began to head home for the night, Miles overheard some singing Sweet Caroline as they walked away and allowed himself to smile silently. Before he could leave with Lela and Butchy for the night, Miles was stopped by a few people to be told how much they liked his playing.

Neither of the siblings needed to look very closely on their walk home to see that Miles’ face was burning a firetruck shade of red. However, when questioned on the matter, Miles simply stated that it must’ve been because he was sitting so close to the fire. Lela and Butchy shared yet another knowing smile as both of them had been sitting next to Miles, also in close proximity to the fire, but neither of them had turned quite the same shade of red. The two siblings took another look at Miles before shaking their heads - it was only a matter of time before he figured out that his yelling of lyrics definitely meant he sang in front of everyone at the bonfire. Until then, they’d allow him to believe nobody had heard him over the shouts from Seacat, Lugnut, and Struts, even though the shocked looks on the faces of some of those around them said otherwise. Miles was in his own, happy, little bubble of self-confidence, and neither one of them wanted to let that bubble burst just yet.

#foreveralwaysprompts #writing #writing prompt

[thevideonastiest]

The Most Beautiful Creature - Part 2

The sequel to the previous fic, both of the pair find themselves dealing with the aftermath of a tender declaration! But will they confront their feelings?

Nah, because slow-burns are the best!

Continued from a prompt by the lovely @thatnerdgirl7! Thank you once again for your fantastic idea and hopefully this does it justice! ❤️

———————————————-

As of that morning, Rat had put his foot down (and promptly yowled in pain, it was his bad side) and decided that enough was enough; it was getting so boring now, laying in the same spot for most of the day, only getting himself up to fetch a new bottle of cider to drink. 

To Chloe it didn’t seem that different to what Rat got up to before the incident that injured him, but he did seem very eager all the same, suggesting to sneak out of his living quarters-slash-work, and head out and hang around Chloe’s little bunny burrow home for the day and upcoming night. And so, the pair made their way through the dirt-tunnel route of her creation, a bit awkwardly mind, as Chloe had to support Rat’s lanky body with her short one. He wasn’t up to walking proper yet, but still it wasn’t a long journey from under the cellar floor to her home.

“It’s a strange thing fer’ sure, mah bright eyes,” Rat said to Chloe. She was focused on supporting him at that moment, and really wasn’t in the mood to talk, but she wouldn’t turn him down all the same. He continued on; “Ah don’t remember a single thing from last night.”

“You were pretty tired.” She replied, trying to talk and concentrate on walking in rhythm with the limping rat, at the same time. “You fell asleep as soon as I finished patching you up.”

Some months ago, Rat would have left it at that and not care to continue, having no interest in any recollecting of memories. But he found he had started to remember the previous days and nights before a lot clearer now, after he had met Chloe anyway. He wouldn’t say it, but things felt more worth remembering nowadays. Anyway, it seemed interesting to him that he couldn’t remember this night specifically, so he decided to prod on a bit. “Didn’t miss nothin’ interestin’ then?”

Chloe shook her head slightly, careful not to knock her head against the still sore body of Rat, “Nah nah! I just headed off soon afterwards.” While he might have been interested in the specifics of it, Chloe couldn’t get it out of her head, that last night and especially the tender gesture he gave to her. She so very wanted to know what he meant by it exactly. Was it just the usual flirting he did, coming out strangely on account of his drowsy state? Or would it be silly and romantic to think he was trying to reveal some deeper feelings? And what more, would it be awkward to bring it up to him at all?

She had to stop there, as a snicker alerted the little rabbit out of her thoughts, she must have gotten lost in them again. Rat always found it funny when she zoned out, she always looked so blank.

Still, Chloe checked with a cautious “What?”, to see whether the laugh was for her or for something else entirely. She looked to her side and up at Rat as best she could, him leaning on her still, to see his response better. It made her nervous as the rat started to cackle once more, as soon as she had looked at him.

With a knowing, devilish smirk on his face, Rat started; “You’re as red as a rose bush, cher.” He raised his brow and nudged Chloe with his shoulder, as best as he could while still leaning on her. “Ah musta’ said plenty a dirty line last night, eh?”

Chloe’s heart was in her throat now, she didn’t realise that she had started to blush from the memories. “Nah nah!”, she insisted, “I’ve heard much worse from you anyway.” And that was certainly true. The line involving her thighs and a couple of apples sprang to mind.

Still, Rat wasn’t satisfied with that hasty response, whatever he had said last night, and for it to make her feel this sheepish? Well, it must have been legendary.

“Alright, what was it then? Come on now, what did ah’ say?” He stopped promptly in his tracks, Chloe nearly falling forwards at the sudden stop. Rat moved quickly and held her steady just in time, stepping before his friend to face her, holding her shoulders to push her on to talk, as well as to support himself.

As Chloe realised the sudden position they were in, she knew he wasn’t going to let up anytime soon. Her cheeks still flushed, she found she couldn’t even force herself to make eye contact with him, she just felt so nervous. Getting the words together in her head a bit better, she fumbled out finally; “Just  . . . something like me being beautiful.”

Looking downwards still, it threw Chloe off completely as she heard Rat begin to laugh above her. Not a cackling laugh though, like he gave out when he was feeling devilish, but a mirthful giggle of amusement. Honestly, while she still felt a bit sheepish, she found she could relax a bit with how endeared he sounded.

“You are ADORABLE y’know?” Rat continued to laugh and smile, a little bit cockily, as he looked down to her. “A compliment of mah own creation and you go red sure, but shrink away! Any ol’ ‘you’re beautiful’, and you’re a mess!” He moved his hands from Chloe’s shoulders down to her plump upper arms; still grasping for support, yet holding her with affection.

Chloe smiled coyly, her eyes were closed as she failed not to reminisce further on the eventful night. “It was really nice.” she said dreamily, “Like about me being ‘the most beautiful creature in your world’.” She soon began to feel a bit embarrassed again, worrying that she had sounded too into it. Chloe fumbled out once more; “It was nice.”

The worry that she had felt however, couldn’t compare to the shock and horror Rat was feeling right then and there. Aside from his heavy brow being raised just slightly, he was doing a very good job at hiding just how panicked and angry he felt at himself; ‘Rat, you dumb cuss!’, he screamed in his head. The normally aloof rodent was having a hard enough time as it was, just trying to work out these weird, and frankly, disgusting feelings he’d never experienced before, and he sure as hell didn’t want them coming out right in front of Chloe and before he had figured out how to properly . . . repress them. But right now, he couldn’t lose his cool, so better play it so.

“Hmm,” he pretended to ponder to himself, his eyes moving to the side, and tongue clicking in thought. “Musta been real out of it, don’t remember that at all.”

“Ahh that’s ok.”, Chloe followed with a nod. For now, it was definitely for the better that this was forgotten. Only recently had they both started to get closer as friends, it would just be shame to dive this deep in already and potentially make it awkward. All the same, she couldn’t help but feel touched by what he had said, and how special he had made her feel. “Thank you still.” She said to Rat, beaming up at him while clasping her hands together eagerly.

Rat chuckled at her sweet and shy ‘thank you’. “No point thankin’ me over things ah can’t remember.” he said, in a casual tone and with a shrug of his shoulders. Still, as cool as he tried to play it, he couldn’t help but try to make that smile on her face stay put. His one weakness, he figured. “Ah can believe it however. Any man with a lovely lil’ lady like yourself, lookin’ down on 'em as she nurses ‘em right up? Well, it ‘d make their heart thump harder than a hammer on a nail.”

A squeal and a giggle was soon followed, from an embarrassed yet charmed Chloe. “Stop that!” After collecting herself, she stepped back to his side, and then helped Rat to once again lean himself against her, both to continue heading home. 

And while Rat had found himself ultimately satisfied with both keeping his secret, and making his little lovely blush, he just couldn’t help himself all the same.

He continued on, “Well, more than his ol’ heart would be thumpin’, really.”

There was a pause.

“Ok, now stop.” Chloe responded firmly, rolling her eyes in slight annoyance, as Rat once more began to cackle with glee.

#fantastic mr fox #self insert #fic #rat #willem dafoe

[hgfstreamchats]

Pokemon Yellow Nuzlocke: Part 1

Hello! Greetings. This website seems determined to change how it works every week or so. It's revolting. I still haven't gotten around figuring out how to archive. Assuming there is a way to do so. Soundwave's apparently worked something out, but nothing for the long term. Until they stop fiddling with the site itself, then there's no figuring out a permanent system. Eugh. Any hints as to what this is? A short film that should have won at the Oscars and didn't. And I've been incredibly surly over this. I see... Unattended children die in a clay mire? And how! hello! Hello there! Hello. what is happening here Bad decisions. good times, then In an asbestos mine -- nobody's favorite mineral to eat. Too late then. He died as he lived -- choking on lungs full of cold, wet, sucking asbestos and groundwater. how very existential A cautionary tale in not allowing children to wander. It's very Cybertronian!

Alright. Now let's see if we can get this emulator working. Flawless paragon of its kind, truly Oh, there we are! Is the sound alright for everyone? No problems? It seems to be working fine. coming through perfetly clear and 16-bit Fantastic! What to name your rival? Oh, so many possibilities. and only seven letters to do it in Let's see, who do I hate? and, if the name is too long, do you have a demeaning nickname Fair enough. True, and cutting his name short probably WOULD annoy him more Oh, immensely. The hardest part of this game is apparently thinking of names. I'm having fun so far! it's almost like it didn't stand a chance against a rodent that literally stores lightning in itself Your rat is displeased. Look at that face! We'll get along perfectly! Alright, here are the rules of the game. First pokemon encountered in any given area is the one we catch, fainting means death, and we get one Mulligan on Lambo because he's my special, darling little boy. Seems straight forward enough. Do you have to name all the monsters you catch? Every single one. So you get attached Absolutely. If we're not all crying before this project is at an end, I've failed as your master of ceremonies and you can point and laugh at me. I promise to point and laugh if you get all your monsters killed before reaching the next city. That's reasonable. Oh yes, back to the naming screen! Scrap. That was an accident. I thought you could only catch the first pidgey you encountered in this area? We're cheating a little because it's the first area. Tsk tsk. yeah, aren't we basically still in the forced tutorials bit? Game hasn't properly started yet Exactly. Hence The Rat With No Name, whom I'm sure we'll all grow to accept regardless. Unless it dies. then we'll accept it as The Rat That Lasted Less Than An Hour UI'm here! What did I miss? Hello! We watched a child drown in a mire, and now it is time for imaginary monster catching. Nuzlocke edition Ahhh I'm just seeing the rabbit loading screen If I'd known we were starting at the old time, I would have been here! Also, hang on while I reload Night human! Welcome! So, I hear the game music, but there's no video. Can anyone else see... anything? It is working for me. Same Gosh! This is exactly what I wanted to deal with. If I'd known we were starting at the old time, I would have been here! Also, hang on while I reload Night human! Welcome! So, I hear the game music, but there's no video. Can anyone else see... anything? It is working for me. Same Gosh! This is exactly what I wanted to deal with. Yeah, Rabbit's been... just stellar tonight Let me save and then try something. .............................. Son of a glitch. Well, that's why we save often. I'll try a different browser. I'd be lying if I said I din't fear for the Rat With No Name's Future. Eh. To be fair, you probably should. He's very delicate. He probably cries a lot. I think I need to reboot. brb Look at them clearing out those harmless, low level wild mice and rats. That's my team! Devastating the local ecosystem. The perfect hobby for ten year old children. pff, wait 'til we start catching the ones said to be responsible for the weather Assuming we get that far. I do not think the Rat is going to make it that far along. Don't you talk about my Rat that way. It's not his fault he's good at nothing. Time to move out of the baby field. And start playing with the rules properly? Yes nd I'm still not getting any video. Very odd... I'm using Rabbit Share. Does that make a difference? I don't know Hold on. Let me try rebooting it. After I name the new bird. If it's working for other people, then the problem is on my end yeah, best guess? Video drivers are acting up. wait! there it is! woo! Okay, so, Chrome works, Opera no longer does, I guess. So are we permanently back to starting at 6-6:30, or is this a one-time thing? A one time thing, at least until spring. I was feeling under the weather, so no newspark wrangling tonight." Ahhhh If I'd known I wouldn't have stayed late at work, and then run errands, and then gone out for takeout... Hmm, name suggestions for the bug? Or at the least, not those last two things "Twinkie" Ha. Now, who shall die Two mons enter, one mon leaves! And then you take the loser's money. ...it lets you JUMP OVER short hedges! well, yeah, I mean that's just general death match rules regarding money, right? So are they GIVING you the money or are you looting it from their dead/unconscious body? Mostly throwing it at you so you'll let them rush their monsters to medical aid Ah, so you're mugging them. Though, I guess they start out trying to mug YOU, so... You've killed their monsters. It is a bribe to avoid being slain as well. and this is a Nuzlocke, so they WILL kill you given half a chance It's a dangerous pokeworld out there I never knew bullying children could be so much fun! I find that statement highly suspect. Indeed, I am fairly certain you've enjoyed bullying children before this. Those were human children, they didn't count. These are Pokemon universe children. Very different. Aah, I see. *raises eyebrows* So... Pokemon universe children aren't human? .... According to the lore, they are also Pokemon. What, really? Ew. It is a strange universe That would explain why they all look the same, I guess. Or, uh... you know what I mean. The Nurse Joy lore is actually FASCINATINGLY weird Oh help me, that's adorable. I'd like to make it through the gym without casulties. *casualties It is going to be a challenge. Ooooo! A new one! Okay, rules be scrapped, I want her! We won't tell. In the name of gender diversity. Who needs rules, anyway? Besides, poison is pretty much the most fun type to play with Woohoo! Oh, it has horns? "Horny" No. "Spiky" Also vaguely inappropriate. Shoot, I was going for VERY inappropriate. Moonbeam. Very inappropriate would be something like Valveula'. Ooo, nice. I should have named my rival Valveula. You should have. You could do that next time. She's blue and thorny. I should have called her Arcee. /me hurriedly disguises a laugh as a cough A PURPLE one! Nice. In the interest of not cheating quite so much, I won't use him. I'll tuck him away and use him if worst comes to worst. Maybe the name should reflect that? Hmmmm. No room for "There's Been An Accident." exigency? "Whoopsie"? Ooh, I like that. 😃 Another! She's having none of it. If little Alpina/Arcee's going to survive the gym, she's got to learn to kill everything she loved. yeah, I've seen this first gym break the teeth of the unprepared LOTS of Nidorans all of a sudden Where were they when catching one wouldn't have been cheating? Hiding from you. And how did that work out for you, Nidorans? Have you caught all the pokemon you're allowed to before the gym? I have. There's mankey in the forest, but that's more cheating than I'm willing to do. Ahhhh. Well, would you look at that! Look at what? Little Twinkie's growing up. Oh! : ) Soon he'll be a full grown twink. Honestly, if I'd realized he was green and not yellow, I would have suggested, like... Bean It worked out this way. I guess it did! Maybe he's, like, an Easter twinkie That he is! My god https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/513t76TJEVL._SX355_.jpg https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/513t76TJEVL._SX355_.jpg images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com Oh, I thought it would actually show the image. Whoops Silly question, but does that... cost anything? To heal them up? not a cent Nice! Yeah! Take on Brock! Kick his ass! I'm at least going to get some experience off his little lackey trainers. Well now. That was too close a call for the Rat With No Name. You could just call him Boy. Time to face the first gym leader I just realized this is Zelda music Or nearly. Time to die. Rock hard defense. Pfffhehehehe Nice. *cheering* The cheating to get her was not in vain. See, children? Cheaters always prosper. We'll go to the moon cave, then pack up for the night. Nice. Oh no! You let that monster die. RIP Lambo. Ah, ah, remember! Lambo gets one mulligan! I remember. Just as he shall remember this death. Oh, well, that's alright then. He's seen what's beyond. He'll never be the same. You monster. On the plus side, the upcoming Gym has plenty of targets for his traumatized wrath That should stop him from murdering us all in our beds. Yes, that's right; have him murder other pokechilds instead. There's nothing behind those little eyes of his. Now that's not true. His death has placed the void of oblivion within his gaze When you gaze into the void, Lambo gazes back. He knows there's nothing watching out for us. Hmm. What to name the pig monkey? Witwicky. Ha. That's mean. I like it. I've been told I'm a mean individual. Probably by jealous people. Anakin. It's small and fat and full of life, like Lambo was until about 15 minutes ago. I love it. And it LOVES sand. : ) : D my children. I'm so proud. They're in the news! And I think that's where we'll wrap it up for now! This seems like a good point. Aww. Well, it was fun! Thank you for hosting tonight's nonsense. you survived, you got a badge, and there was only minimal cheating! It's the best scenario we could have hoped for! And for our traditional parting high note... A for effort. I'm sure it tastes fine. PFFF Why is he dying I like the cookie lodged in his head. His life is pain. I like the expression oh my god I called it. That's his dick. ... A very high note to end on. I'm glad you think so! That was great. Good night, everyone! Thank you for coming and enduring all of that level grinding! Goodnight! thank you, good night! Thanks for the stream, and goodnight!

[sagebodisattva]

The Slaughter of the Sacred Cows

In my last video, “The Conspiracy Brain Syndrome”, I went on a vigorous attack against conspiracy theory, and left it battered and broken, bleeding to death on a darkened path, deep in the woods, gasping for it’s last breath under the pale blue moonlight. It seems that I managed to hit a lot of raw nerves with the type of message I was speaking, and, apparently, more then a few people seemed to get quite upset about it. Awwwww. Isn’t that a pity? I’m not quite sure who these protestors are, because most of the emotional commotion was originating from several highly active sock accounts with absolutely no content, who began trolling the comment section relentlessly. In so far as, who I think these people might be, (because none of these accounts are known followers of the Meta Sage), a lot of evidence is pointing towards the dual-sock; who may or may not have recruited a minion to help do his bidding. Or, as hacking reports from the bat cave have implied, the dual-sock with dual socks, or some combination thereof. No matter what the case, the dual-sock is getting punished over this, severely, and I’m not too overly concerned about whether or not he is solely responsible, is in cahoots with an underling, or claims that he had absolutely nothing to do with it; there’s going to be serious consequences nevertheless, because I have already warned him about this kind of troll conduct, several times.

Be that as it may, maybe there were some among you who were genuinely upset with the message I was conveying, but if so, I’m not sure why, as anyone who would regularly tune into the Meta Sage transmissions shouldn’t expect anything less. If anything, this opposition only reveals that many of you have not yet done what’s been expected of you. Not only have many of you NOT let go of your addictive attachments, but, you are, in fact, actively harboring them, and trying to hide them all under a guise of “philosophical disagreement.” No, not acceptable, at all. I already told you, a long time ago, that, at least when it comes to the Meta Sage channel, there are no sacred cows. I am a reality deconstructionist, and everything you hold dear, is on the table. When you were asked to “let go of everything”, that didn’t mean to let go of everything, except for the special exceptions you keep hidden on the side. No, “let go of everything”, means exactly that. EVERYTHING. There are no special exceptions; and the fact that I have uncovered some of these special exceptions, means that I’ve got a lot more work to do.

You see, I have to apologize to a certain extent, because, up until now, I have been in a transition between spiritual strongholds, and, as of late, have not been able to give the adequate attention to my work, as I usually would. And for this, I am truly sorry. A little cryptic back story on this. In the early part of 2018, the time had finally arrived to where, I had to depart from my old spiritual stronghold. It served me well for a time, and I managed to produce more then two years of content in that place, but, eventually, the space became an inadequate setting for the upcoming chapters of my work, and so, I left that place, and then began a transitional phase, and ended up getting waylaid for a time in a sort of interval stasis situation; but, eventually, I broke out of that, and, in the early summer of 2019, established a new foundation in a more appropriate environment, and ever since then, the production of my new spiritual stronghold has been underway, and now, is at least 95% done. Complete enough to where, I can now begin to refocus my attention back onto the pressing issues at hand, and, start to bring everything back into clean sharp order. I must clear away all the cobwebs, and cast out certain rodents, then, I can finally take my place in a brand new seat of power, and begin the task of casting judgment on everything in the field of the mind-space; and then decide the fate of everything that finds it’s place within the framework of this domain. Yes, I will be deciding what should stay, and what should go; so let’s hope that you can account for yourself, and have not been behaving like a shameless parasite.

But anyway, getting back to the story being told here, at hand. I was disappointed by some of the reactions people were having to “The Conspiracy Brain Syndrome”, video. Not only did it reveal the existence of hidden clinging attachments, but there wasn’t many arguments in opposition that didn’t respond with either externalizations, or yet even more conspiracy theory. It just goes to show that, no matter how meta you get, some people will never be able to see beyond the worm’s eye view. It’s just simply beyond their capacity. But how desperate they’ve become in trying to stop me from remaining lucid about the mind-space. No, they don’t want that, because if that happens, then the bar gets raised; and the higher the bar gets raised, the harder it gets for “others”, to function, because this type of raised bar demands high concentration and discipline, and introduces a whole new set of arduous standards. No, they’d much rather I get distracted and lose clarity, so they can continue to be greedy and lazy.

“No Sage, look at history! C’mon Sage, research these factions! Stop it Sage, pay attention to the outside world! Do anything Sage, but please forget that it’s a mind-space! We don’t want to take on any power or responsibility! We’d much rather be slaves to an illusion. It takes less effort. And it’s secure and comforting. Please Sage!”

Yeah, I know. But, too bad. I am already aware that it’s a mind-space, and I’m not ever going to lose sight of it again, so, you can just forget about that. It’s too late. I’m already across that threshold, and I’m never going back. So you should stop trying to use cheap tactics in an attempt to lower my clarity. No, instead, let’s crank up the pressure, and crack the whip down, on YOU.

And so, this brings us to the solipsistic implications of the issue; which should be noted, as it brings us back to the metaphysical meat of the matter. After I posted the “Conspiracy Brain” video, during all the chaos of the ensuing sock puppet uproar, at a certain point, one of them did try to actually muster up the concentration to articulate a half-assed ideological argument, employing, of all things, the philosophy of solipsism. It seems like he was trying his best to try to throw down some kind of unmanageable conceptual sticking point, but it wasn’t effective. At the time, I didn’t go into an in-depth exchange with the fool, because it’s really not worth typing paragraphs and paragraphs of discourse, only to have it later deleted; so now, when dealing with trolls, it’s better to just sling a couple of insults, and then block them immediately. So a lot of comments got lost in the shuffle. But, luckily, before the dust settled, I managed to screenshot his comments, because I figured, at some point, I would later address them, just for amusement. And so, I will now proceed to impale them endwise, properly.

So onto the sock-puppet’s first comment.

Sock puppet: quote - “Corona is bullshit. Strange that you don't even believe there is a real world Meta Sage, as you're a solipsist (which i basically agree with) -- and yet you think the coronavirus plan-demic is real, and there's a real pandemic happening in the time and space of a big world -- a world which you previously claim in your solipsist talks doesn't even exist? That's pretty ridiculous. You're contradicting yourself if you believe in coronavirus and yet don't even believe in an objective solid reality. How are all these supposed people dying on the news if they don't even exist because solipsism is real? You've become a contradiction.” unquote.

To this, I basically replied that, my acknowledgment of the coronavirus, doesn’t translate into an endorsement of an objectively existing physical world. The sock puppet assumes this, because he is, in fact, the only real materialist here, who doesn’t even genuinely subscribe to solipsism; so it’s not clear why he was trying to elucidate it’s points. So I brought it to his attention that, even though the world is illusory, the illusory nature of the world doesn’t mean the illusory events that take place it in it, are a deception. You want to assert that there’s lies being told within an illusion, and the reason they are lies is because it’s an illusion. That’s what you imply by this line of reasoning. If you really understood that reality is not in ‘time-space’, but is, in fact, a ‘mind-space’, then you wouldn’t posit such a silly proposition. No, the world perceived through the senses is indeed illusory, but everything that happens within it, is conditionally true. We say “conditionally true”, to emphasize the illusory nature, while, at the same time, acknowledging the structure of illusion. Yes, there are illusory people in an illusory world, but the illusory world has illusory rules. If an illusory body steps out in front of an illusory truck, the illusory truck is going to crush the illusory body. Period. It’s as simple as that. So it would be real stupid to call the coronavirus a deception within the illusion when it’s clearly a part of the illusory world, and has the potential to kill you; just as there are lots of other things killing people all the time. People are getting eaten by sharks, right now. People are perishing of cancer, and dying in car crashes, right now.

To this, the sock puppet replied with:

Sock Puppet: quote - “Meta Sage, you said someone right now is dying in a car crash -- wrong. Solipsism posits the ONLY thing that you can prove to be real, is your own consciousness. If someone calls you on a phone from Hawaii - you don't KNOW they exist right now in Hawaii -- all you KNOW and can PROVE is that your phone has a voice of someone who claims to be in Hawaii right now. But you, can never be in 2 places at the same time, and therefore you will never ever ever be able to prove that person actually exists in Hawaii right now when you're somewhere else in the world talking to them on a phone. You are here and now -- and only here and now -- forever. So you saying someone is dying in a car right now is pure speculation. "Solipsism holds that knowledge of anything outside one's own mind is unsure; the external world and other minds cannot be known and might not exist outside the mind”, that's the definition right off of google itself. So you're NOT a solipsist by saying someone is dying in a car right now -- unless you can photograph it and are there in person -- it's bullshit. Just like you claiming all these people are dying of coronavirus. And your claims break the code of solipsism and contradict it entirely.” unquote.

The main issue here, that seems to be this troll’s major mental malfunction, is his inability to directly apply solipsism with the pure mind. Instead, he only considers it intellectually, which, inevitably, is always going to fall short of the mark. Becoming lucid, versus only having knowledge about the subject of solipsism intellectually, are two completely different things. It’s a divide too wide to negotiate, and nothing in this sock puppet’s little bag of dirty tricks, will be sufficient enough to bridge the gap. The examples he references, and the definitions he cites from the internet, are also intellectual misinterpretations of solipsism, and it doesn’t wash. Sorry, no matter how you slice it, I win, and you lose.

So, let’s go ahead and review the second statement, then parse through it’s points briefly, and dissect them accordingly.

“Solipsism posits the only thing you can prove to be real, is your own consciousness.”

“Solipsism”, posits this, eh? Is solipsism an entity that can make assertions now? Silly enough on it’s own, but then you start talking about “what YOU can prove.” So, I ask, who’s the “you”, referring to in this statement? “OWN consciousness?” Who’s the owner of this consciousness exactly? You seem to place a whole lot of weight in the existence of an identification with the ego personality. I guess that’s why you could possibly think that this ego is the only ego you can be sure that exists; as if you are an ego that has an existence in the first place. This conclusion is based on a mis-identification, and is a common stumbling block for existential explorers who don’t journey deep enough. No, you have not made the proper lucid connection yet. The entirety of the dream is a whole, and the ego personality is woven right into the very fabric of it. The ego is no different then those that you refer to as “others.” Both are equally aspects of a dream, and this dream is found within the imagination of awareness. So, more aptly stated, the ‘awareness of the dream’, is the only thing that can be known for sure to exist. Understood this way, there is no confusion. But, even if we take this the wrong way, and argue it out falsely, in the way you originally wanted, I still win. If my ego is the only ego that exists, and everything else in the world, including other people, are all figments of my personal mind, it does nothing to lessen the fact that the coronavirus, and anything else for that matter, are all conditional aspects of my imagined world. In other words, I am dreaming of an imaginary physical world where there are imaginary physical entities that are vulnerable to all kinds of imaginary deaths, via all kinds of imaginary circumstances. And one of the things I am imagining to be killing lots of these imaginary entities, is an imaginary virus. Hence, I imagine hearing about all these imaginary deaths going on in my world. So, that doesn’t work. Ultimately, what we can say with confidence, is that, however which way you want to look at it, the sock puppet troll who left this comment is just as real or fake as the coronavirus. So think hard about how you wanna answer that. The coronavirus is as much of a hoax as you are. Whatever you say the coronavirus is, you fall into the exact same category.

Then the troll goes on to quote from a Google search: quote - “Solipsism holds that knowledge of anything outside one's own mind is unsure; the external world and other minds cannot be known and might not exist outside the mind.” unquote.

Yeah, but the thing is, this whole “own mind”, versus the “other mind”, bullshit, is completely false. And the reason it’s false, is because it’s a mere assumption grounded upon a faulty premise. Things that are outside of own mind? And what the hell might that be exactly? There’s no “own” anything. How can a thing be outside of one’s own mind when all there is, is mind? It’s ALL mind; so please explain how anything can be outside of itself. There is no “outside”, and this is the crux of your misunderstanding, mr. sock puppet man.

See, the problem here, is that you are not sincere. Instead, you are just playing little word games, and engaging in intellectual thought experiments, that have no basis in reality. And the reason you are doing this, is because you want to both hide your attachments, and attempt to distract me from clarity; but, you’ve failed on both fronts. And now, I am going to turn the tables and put you through your paces. I know that you are actively trying to hide your special exception attachments from me, but now, I think the time has finally come, for a slaughter of the sacred cows. So watch out. I am coming for everything, and I will hunt down every last sacred attachment that you have hidden, deep in your mind. I am going to find them all, and lay them bare. Nothing is safe. And if you think for one second that, by erecting fortified walls around your precious attachments, that it’s going to do anything to stop me, then you are sadly mistaken, my friend. It’s not going to stop anything. I will find every last attachment you have concealed, and I will drag it out into the open, and then brutalize it, harshly. And I don’t care how vigilant you are in your protective efforts. It’s just a matter of time, and I have an obscene amount of patience. You have to go to sleep some time; and when you do, I will break into your mind and search every nook and cranny of it, until I have found all of your hidden special exceptions. Then, I will proceed to quickly strip them down, and then club them repeatedly, to within inches of their lives.

[gossipnetwork-blog]

Meet Trans Comedian Making Fart Jokes an Act of Resistance

New Post has been published on http://gossip.network/meet-trans-comedian-making-fart-jokes-an-act-of-resistance/

Meet Trans Comedian Making Fart Jokes an Act of Resistance

“I love to create very dumb and stupid shit,” says comedian Patti Harrison. Jessica Lehrman for RollingStone.com

Patti Harrison is seated onstage at an ACLU fundraiser in the dimly lit backroom of a Brooklyn bar. It’s a comedy show, but the room is somber – it’s been mere days since Donald Trump was elected president. Despite the upsetting turn of events, Harrison appears overwhelmingly put together. She has the alert, composed posture of an honor student on the first day of school. When she speaks, her tone is measured and polite, as if she is selecting each word carefully from a basket of perfectly ripened apples.

She tells the audience how deeply upsetting the election has been for her, a trans woman of color. She has also just landed her dream job as a comedy writer, and she is rattled by feeling so high and so low so swiftly. She proceeds to quietly read the pitches she had to bring into work the day following the election and the room fills with ripples of laughter that escalate into shrieks and roars. One is a show called “Son Boss” – a father promotes his son too many times until he realizes his son is now the boss. Harrison punctuates the premise with a deadpan, “Uh oh, Son Boss.” The audience wails.

Eight months later, Harrison found herself in front of an audience of millions. President Trump had tweeted that he would ban transgender people from the military and The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon invited the 26-year-old Ohio native to share her thoughts on the proposed ban. Harrison was polished and charming as ever as she chided the president, saying, “Donald, you are so stupid, you are sooo stupid. You’re lucky you’re so hot.” The appearance was a hit – earning nearly 400,000 views on YouTube, thousands of retweets on Twitter and a headline in The New York Times. It was a surreal moment for Harrison who, in the face of the current political climate, speaks with as much reverence for the power of fart jokes as she does the importance of trans rights.

“I love to create very dumb and stupid shit,” says Harrison, “And that’s the funny thing – when people seek me out as this like political comedian, I literally just want to joke about IBS and farting.”

Harrison still performs in the basements and backrooms that make up New York City’s alt-comedy scene, but she is poised to become the most visible working trans comedian in America. You may recognize her from her comedic videos about queer and trans identities. Or perhaps you’ve seen “Patti Reviews Animals,” where she serenaded a squirrel monkey, delivered heartbreaking news about Steve Irwin to an alligator and confused a Patagonian cavy, a South American rodent, with Sofia Vergara. If you haven’t seen Harrison yet, chances are you will soon. With a recurring role on season two of TBS’s Search Party, a guest role in the current season of Broad City and a small part in Paul Feig’s upcoming film, A Simple Favor, Harrison is suddenly everywhere. But perhaps the biggest role Harrison has been asked to play is that of mouthpiece for the trans community. Harrison’s identity as a trans woman of color, paired with her general charm and poise, make her a perfect go-to for witty commentary on trans rights – even if her humor is rarely overtly political.

Jo Firestone, who writes for The Tonight Show and has produced many live shows featuring Harrison, adores her absurdist, gross-out wit. She recalls a card Harrison made for her. “[It] had a goofy cartoon character on the front … a cute little poodle – and then on the inside, the doodle-poodle had developed breasts and a penis and balls and was bleeding from the mouth and screaming out, ‘My body is a cage!'”

Harrison is like this on stage, too. Her tone is polite, composed and inviting. When paired with her pointedly stupid jokes or characters – which alternate between sweetly wholesome and ultra vulgar – the effect is disarming. It’s like watching a cashmere sweater unravel and reveal hundreds of blood-thirsty baby spiders – horrific and captivating.

“She has a warmth about her that is very exciting,” says Firestone. “She just has ideas that nobody else has and her overall demeanor is so interesting. She’s so calm on stage and so in control but also so strange.”

Although Harrison’s live act isn’t improv, it retains the off-the-cuff energy of her improvisational roots. She often dips into characters who are both endearing and repulsive. She loves, for example, to play old people who are horny. And she adores the opportunity to sing a silly song doing an impeccable Stevie Nicks impression. In a recent “bats and rats”-themed comedy show in New York City, Harrison asserted that she definitely knew what bats and rats were before she crooned, “I’ve seen the love on a child’s face know, yeah I know that love always wins. But I never learned this one thing.” She pauses dramatically before bursting into the chorus: “I don’t know what a bat is / I don’t know what a rat is, too / I don’t know what those things are / Is it like a shoe?”

Harrison says much of her humor is inspired by growing up in Orient, Ohio, a rural town where she was often the only person of color in an almost exclusively white community. The daughter of a Vietnamese immigrant mother and a father with roots in Detroit and Tennessee, Harrison quickly learned that, in order to survive, she had to sympathize with those who openly mocked her. “I think a lot of me trying to blend in was me co-opting the racism that was used against me in a way – being OK with it. Like, ‘Yeah they’re calling me chink but they mean it in a nice way. They’re not racist, they hang out with me every day! Sure, they make jokes about me eating rice all the time, but they invite me to the movies sometimes!'”

“She just has ideas that nobody else has and her overall demeanor is so interesting. She’s so calm on stage and so in control but also so strange,” Jo Firestone says of Patti Harrison. Jessica Lehrman for RollingStone.com

Harrison, the youngest of four sisters, credits her siblings for helping her to see that she didn’t have to accept other people’s biased behavior. “My sisters were really smart,” she says. “And they sort of planted that seed in me that I actually don’t have to put up with this if I don’t want to.”

Growing up, Harrison also loved MadTV, especially its female performers and their unabashed wildness. “People like to shit on MadTV,” she says. “But it was this hub of female excellence and female character comedians like Debra Wilson, Nicole Sullivan, Mo Collins, Stephanie Weir – all of these people that are just like powerhouse performers.” 

But it wasn’t until college, when a friend invited her to an improv show, that it occurred to her to perform on stage. She was immediately smitten with the form and auditioned for the improv team at Ohio University. She was elated when she got in. “That was the defining moment in my college career. I felt like, ‘Wow, I’ve accomplished something.” 

When Harrison finished her fourth year of college, she came out as trans. Her family was supportive but coming out wasn’t without its uncomfortable conversations. Having switched majors, she still had credits to complete for her degree, but she ultimately decided not to return to school. Instead, she moved to New York to earn her living as a famous improvisor. “I thought that was a thing you could do,” she laughs.

Performing after she came out as trans was markedly different from her college stage experience. “My command changed,” she says. “Before I transitioned, I felt like I could walk on stage and just, like, say anything and people would just laugh. And that’s kind of a privilege that I just lost through the layers of social context and me being visibly a political object in a lot of people’s brains.”

Like all comedians, Harrison must face the challenges of connecting with an audience, but being trans often adds an additional layer of division between herself and the people from whom she’s hoping to elicit laughs. “It’s like, ‘Oh that’s a trans person.’ And that’s the conversation they’re having in their head throughout my set,” she explains.

Harrison still vividly remembers the cutting feeling of her first brush with transphobia as a performer. “One of the first shows I did in New York, I got on stage and this person in the front at normal speaking level was just like, ‘Oh that’s a guy. That’s a dude,'” she says. “And I had to keep going. And I bombed. Because I felt so disarmed in a bad way. It immediately got me in my own head.”

Harrison says she now feels mostly at home in the spaces where she performs, especially in Brooklyn where she knows she has allies. “I perform in spaces that are very inclusive and protective,” she says. “I feel more comfortable knowing that there are people around [who are] progressively minded who will have my back.” But there are still moments that give her pause, particularly when friends introduce her to people who turn out to be transphobic. “People are like, ‘Oh this is bla bla bla, he’s so nice, he’s great!'” she says. “And then it’s like, oh I have to stand with this guy who won’t look at me.” Harrison also has had the feeling she’s been booked for shows by men who are eager to identify as allies, but who are clearly uncomfortable interacting with her. “It’s like, ‘I’ll put you on the show, but oh do I have to touch you? Do I have to hand you the drink ticket?'”

Following her appearance on Fallon, Harrison was briefly flooded with requests for interviews. While it was an opportunity both for visibility as a performer, and visibility for the trans community, Harrison noticed an upsetting pattern in the questions she was sometimes asked by her interviewers. “I think it’s important for people to know [that I’m trans],” she says. “For the most part, there’s not a ton of out and working trans comedians, or people who are visible. [But] sometimes those questions [about being trans] have been a gateway to more invasive questions.”

Those questions are invariably about the intimate details of Harrison’s transition. She’s been asked various times whether she’s had surgery. “It’s always about sexualizing you,” she says. “It’s always about ‘Can I fuck you?’ and ‘How can I fuck you?'” 

Dylan Marron, a writer and performer who got to know Harrison while working with her at comedy site Seriously.tv says he was instantly impressed with Harrison’s writing and her sensibilities as a performer. “I think what makes Patti so brilliant – in terms of needing more representation in media – is that Patti is just so fully herself,” he says.

Marron recalls a video Harrison made in 2016 after Brooklyn Magazine released their 50 Funniest People in Brooklyn list. The video was captioned, “To congratulate everyone whose name made it on.” In the video, Harrison gazes forlornly offscreen, scanning for her own name. She realizes she hasn’t been included, turns to the camera and asks theatrically, her voice strained, “Where’s my name?” She sobs, rises and exits dramatically, on rollerblades.

“Queer art is all about subverting further levels than you ever thought possible,” he says. “I think that’s what Patti does so beautifully.”

The daughter of a Vietnamese immigrant mother, Patti Harrison says much of her humor is inspired by growing up in Orient, Ohio, a rural town where she was often the only person of color in an almost exclusively white community. Jessica Lehrman for RollingStone.com

While she recognizes the value of representation, Harrison also says there’s something affirming about getting cast in parts on Broad City and Search Party, neither of which were written with a focus on the characters being trans. “It’s a good sign when we can have a marginalized person on screen – any person of color or LGBTQIA person – and there’s no shoehorn explanation as to why they are there,” she says. “They can just be on screen and their character motivations are what they are and they’re not like ‘Oh this is my maid. She’s trans, but she’s also a flute player.'”

“I think in some places it’s like, yeah someone in the midwest needs to see that I’m a trans character and I’m a person,” she says. “But for me it is very rewarding to get to just act and not have to think about my otherness for a few hours.”

In the same regard, Harrison often feels that speaking about the silly and mundane sometimes feels like its own political statement. “I’m learning now that just being a visibly marginalized person and not addressing it in an artistic space is almost more political than for me to be on stage talking about it,” she says. “It’s fully a privilege to be an artist and not have to talk about your oppression in your art. If you don’t have that challenge – you get to make art about a hoverboard!”

As for the dismal political landscape, Harrison says it’s only driven her to keep creating the stupidest jokes possible. “I think in the way that a lot of people’s bodies release tears when they’re stressed or sad, my body releases horrible, horrible jokes about bird assholes and the dumbest things I can think of, because – even if it’s just for a second – it [provides] relief. I guess the equivalent of taking a deep calming breath for me is like farting in a beautiful musical tone,” she says, adding, “Or farting with a dear friend! If you’re doing it with a friend you can harmonize a chord.”

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